The Quack

by

They say that all the best
stories begin in taverns, whether with a gang of dwarves about to embark on a
hunt for some dragon’s loot or a powerful wizard disguised as a pedlar. Well
this tale of mine, which was remarkably dwarf and wizard free, began in a theatre.
I’d taken to loitering in the dilapidated stalls of the Regency Theatre earlier
that summer. The Regency was off the old main drag, down a side road littered
with dreamers and drunks. I can remember the twist in my gut the day I found
it, clattering down the fractured cobbles with three rather pissed off grocers
after me. I swear it called to me, a rich orator’s voice echoing in my head.

I curled up in the foyer,
panting like a dog in the sun, whilst my three pursuers thundered past, faces
as red as their tomatoes. When I was certain they’d gone I naturally elected to
have a good nose around.

It was love at first sight.
You see, I could see past the mouldy plaster, the rubble strewn seats and the
rotted drapes. To me it was like finding an old tramp who turned out to be a
fantastic storyman. The boards of the place were soaked with fables.

So on this blazing day in
Sunstide I was reclining in my favourite spot--stage left--watching Varsali
enunciating the third act of Deradov’s epic. He was astonishingly sober for the
hour; either that or the heat had made me so dopey that I couldn’t notice. I
could see the sweat pooling in his pits as he bellowed like an impaled walrus.

I sprang up and took him a
mug of tepid water. “It’s a steamer today, Varsali, why don’t you give yourself
a break and I’ll come watch you tomorrow?”

Versali glugged down the
water and shook his head. “You are a good lad, Coldin, though not saintly
enough to be engaged in work of productive value for your father. Nay, lad,
‘tis neither the heat nor the intricate sonnets of Deradov that irks me this
day.”

I wondered perhaps if some
of the Cloisters’ lads had been pushing him around whilst he was slaughtered on
the spirits again--he certainly seemed troubled.
“A pain of exquisite precision lancinates like a critic’s tongue into my left
man-breast. I am certain it portents an imminent end to my artistic
persuasion.”

I couldn’t avoid a grin at
this. Last week Versali had been convinced he had a tapeworm of such proportion
that he could utilise it as bunting for the impending royal wedding. To my mind
it would have to have been the most inadequate worm ever hatched to allow his
gut to continue to achieve such awesome girth.

“Shall I slip down to the
apothecary then?” I asked.

Versali tottered to a
ripped seat, his jowls rippling as he slumped in exhaustion. He dug deep in the
folds of his robe and produced a silver guilder, wet with the sweat from his
corpulent flesh.

“Swiftly, lest you return
to find me deceased and home to a cavorting party of blow flies.”

I dried the coin on my
tunic and scampered off into the summer’s glare.

#

They used to call Kokis the
Shining City on account of some king a thousand years ago that capped all the
fine buildings with bronze and copper. Versali says you can’t have shine
without shade and I suppose it’s true--darkness can’t exist if there’s no
light. Well where I lived in Kokis was definitely the shade. Next time you
stride down the broad avenues, admiring the soaring architecture and soaking up
the colourful thespians that mill on each corner, take a second to peer through
the cracks. Those buildings, those strutting peacocks that preen before you,
are like a set on the stage. And behind the scenes is where the poor and the
downtrodden live.

I’d be fibbing to say I was
majorly hard up. My old dad is a milliner--a hat maker--and a good one at that.
Trouble is that every bugger wants to wear wigs now so we’ve hit hard times.
We’re definitely back-stage now. My three elder brothers are learning the
trade, though any occupation that sends you gibbering into your porridge by
your fifth decade hardly appeals. My younger sister kind of fills the gap that
mum left when she died. As for me--well I was branching out that summer,
searching for my calling.

I crossed over the Sighing
Bridge and then nipped through the Apostle’s Garden and down to the Cloisters.
Some of the upper town girls were out, fanning themselves in the heat, and I
winked at a few, mainly to see who gave me the look of most disgust. Bloody
clothes horses they are, not honest girls like the Riverside Tarts.

The lanes of the Cloisters
were dense with folk and the traders were out in force. I was doing fine until
I saw the braziers. A spherical Pyrian merchant was demonstrating how
impressively they burnt and one flared five feet away from me.

I’ll be honest--I totally
lost it. All I could see was searing fire, its golden fingers of death grasping
for my eternal soul. Smoke was constricting my air pipe like a hangman’s noose
and my ears were ringing to screams--my mother’s screams.

When I stopped running I
was three lanes short of the apothecary. Sweat ran in torrents down me. Then I
heard him. His voice carried like pollen on the breeze, swirling around me,
tempting me in with its honeyed timbre.

“And you, madam, crippled
as you are with the dropsy, ankles as bloated as the Duke’s purse, what in the
Gods’ names can be done for you? No... no... sob not, madam, for the cure of
all ailments water-related is within your grasp.”

I joined a flow of grubby
street-folk, drawn towards his patter like bees to the summer bloom. He was
parading before a small wagon, its colours bright and gaudy, his moustache and
beard greased to points so sharp I could have hung my cap on them. His attire
was superficially resplendent in the shine of the sun but on closer viewing I
could see it to be as cheap and tarnished as the curtains at the Regency.

A woman waddled before him,
her swollen limbs straining her clothes beyond endurance. She punched her gaunt
husband until he begrudgingly parted with a silver coin and she took a small
vial from the moustached man.

Versali’s coin sprang to my
hand by its own volition. “What about gripes and pain within the chest, sir?”

He smoothed his moustache
and then shot me a dazzling smile--he had the finest teeth I’d seen in this
neighbourhood. “Grype, rheumatism, catarrh, tormina and podagra--all bow in
deference to the miraculous formulation of Deradin’s Tincture, a remedy so
effective that already the Guild of Healers seeks its censorship, lest their
choking hold on the market be relieved.”

I couldn’t help but grin
back. “Well, that’s perfect,” I said. “Surely that would be too much for an
urchin like me to procure?”

“That may be true were it
not for my angelic countenance and the fact we have a sale on. To you... two
silver.”

I evidently looked forlorn
as he swiftly said, “Alright, lad, you can have it for one. I am not called
generous Deradin for nought.”

I slid the milky vial in my
pocket. Deradin smelled of fragrant soap, a refreshing change to the hum of
stale spirits that floated around Versali. The punters were ambling away as
Deradin began busily tidying his bottles into his covered wagon. His horse was
munching on some straw from a trough at the street edge.

He glanced at me. “You
still here, boy?”

“Clearly,” I replied, with
a trace of cheek. “Is this the best stuff you’ve got for consumption?”

“The best within your
means. You’re a curious one, aren’t you? You spying for the Guild?”

I laughed at this, mainly
because it was a good idea. “Nah, they couldn’t afford me. D’you need a hand or
anything? I’m told I can charm the purse from a pauper.”

To my credit Deradin
hesitated before chortling. I took that as a ‘no’.

“Piss off, kid,” a gravelly
voice said in my ear.

Either side of me were two
men that could best be described as mountains. Both had bald heads and tattooed
necks that denoted them as cronies of one of the thief-lords. I slipped back to
the fringes of the throng that milled up and down the street but not so far
that I couldn’t ear wig.

“Amazed you had the balls
to come back to the Cloisters, Deradin,” one said. He had a scar running from
chin to scalp, like he’d been sewn together from two halves of a thug.

“I-I’m certain that debt
was paid, Gaarn. Not that I’m calling Mr Escar a liar or any such thing.”

I could see the sun
glinting off a blade as it slid from the second gangster’s sleeve. I had no
doubt Deradin was screwed--which was clearly not my problem save that I wanted
his cure for consumption.

The gangster moved to stick
Deradin at the same instant that I hurled the contents of the bottle from my
pocket. It splashed straight in his lumpy face and hissed as it hit his eyes.
He screamed and slashed his knife blindly, much to the distress of Gaarn who
caught the edge across his arm. Blood arced in a crimson fan as Gaarn staggered
back, tripping over a cage of chickens.

I ran full tilt past the
flailing gangster, dodging the slashing blade and leapt onto the wagon. Deradin
looked stupefied until I screamed at him. He promptly clambered beside me, as
the wagon began bouncing down the street.

“Perhaps I should have
mentioned to avoid contact with the eyes,” Deradin said to me, his moustache
quivering with fear.

#

My sister’s breath rattled
in her cadaverous chest like a beggar’s bowl. I was almost scared to hold her
bony little hand; the skin was like a dried autumn leaf.

I could hear Dad and Deradin deep in hissing conversation in the shop. Another
sound was tickling my ears, like the sound of long grass in the breeze. With a
start I realised it was my sister.

“I seen her.”

“Seen who, Anase? Who’ve
you seen?” I asked, not really wanting to hear the answer.

“Mother.”

My insides were like snow
in spite of the wet heat of the room.

“She said you’ve got a
tough path to tread but remember your loyalties.”

I looked at the gaunt face
of my sister. Her eyes were protruding like two big eggs; her lips were as blue
as a berry.

“Don’t fret about Mum, she’s
in a better place. Get some rest, I’ve brought a man who’ll help,” I said to
her, trying to tease a smile.

“My finest elixir may
resolve the consumption, certainly, but it is the proximity of this...hovel to
the river that is the problem. She requires clean air.”

Dad was rubbing his neck
raw, one of his nervous habits. “I know...I know...but we can’t move. We lost
the last place to the fire. Anase’s chest has been brittle from the smoke ever
since. What price is your elixir?”

“It is ten gold, on account
of the scarcity of the ingredients.”

My heart plummeted like a
rock thrown from a bridge. Dad didn’t have that kind of coin. I gave Anase’s
hand a gentle squeeze and entered the shop. “Dad, before you send him on his
way, I’ve an idea,” I said. I pulled on one of Dad’s travelling hats--it was a
perfect fit. “I’ll go with Deradin. Help him. Work off the debt for as long as
it takes to pay back ten gold.”

My brothers burst out
laughing at this but Dad wasn’t amused. “Don’t be bloody stupid, Col.”

Deradin was twiddling his
moustache in thought, his dark eyes regarding me as if it were the first time
he’d seen me. “One favour deserves another,” Deradin said. “I’ll fetch the
elixir.”

#

If the punters in Kokis
were game for Deradin’s remedies then the country folk were positively gagging
for them.

Summer had slid into
autumn, the nights drawing in around us like a traveller’s cloak. Twilight
seemed to be our best time for business, catching the pickers as they stumbled
back from the golden fields. After three months together we had evolved a grand
patter; Varsali would have exploded with pride at my acting.

Deradin had explained to me from the outset that most of the time folk are too
dumb to know what’s good for them. They get shafted by the Guild and the
apothecaries who demand the skin off your back for tinctures and tonics that
hardly ever work. Deradin’s stuff was top notch but we needed to convince the
punters of that. So that kind of meant it was fine to be liberal with the
truth. It was just like acting really.

In the space of three
months I had miraculously recovered from imbecility, chin cough, bull neck,
scrofula, St Merek’s jig and water on the brain. My personal favourite was falling
sickness, which I had down to a tee. I took to chewing animal fat beforehand so
I could get a really good froth going. Deradin would push past the crowd and
then give me a sip of his tonic, to immediate effect.

At night we’d sit and talk
about Deradin’s travels. He had more tales than hairs on his head. For my part
I’d act out the scenes I could remember Versali performing and Deradin would
always laugh at the right bit.

One night we were walking
up by the common in this village called Arnsbridge. I’d had niggles in my mind
all week.

“How long will it take to
work out ten gold coins, Deradin?”

He looked at me all funny,
almost disappointed. “Not long now. I thought you were relishing the
countryside.”

“I am, I am,” I said. “I
just want to get back and see my sister. She should be better by now.”

“Yes...yes she should,” he
said, voice a bit thick.

“It’s just, well, I worry
that I’m being a bit dishonest,” I said. The four moons were all out tonight
and they lit his dapper features in a kaleidoscope of colour.

“We are no less honest than actors in a play, my lad. All of life is a
charade--we all tread the boards in our own way. It’s like I told you--folk
don’t always know what they need.”

I nodded silently, but
those niggles were still at the back of my brain, back where I couldn’t itch
them. “And your tonics work, don’t they?” I asked.

Deradin looked so offended
that I almost wept. His moustache quivered like a rabbit in a trap.

The villagers chose that
moment to light up a bonfire on the common. It fair whooshed into the air; I
reckon they’d put a fir tree atop it. I felt the fear strike me like a
hurricane. My head burst with phantasms of charring flesh and shrill screams of
abject terror. The billowing smoke was like a huge amorphous monster rushing
towards me.

I could feel the cool
autumn air on my wet face as I hurtled across the village. I sought the welcome
succour of the dark cold corners, the recesses where the searing claws of the
inferno could not find me. I never even saw the carriage.

The next thing I was aware
of was the speckled curtain of the night sky. My back was wet and cold with mud
and my leg was a molten rod of pain. A firm hand was behind my head. It was
Deradin and he was swearing under his breath. I could see my leg, though it didn’t
feel as if it were part of me anymore. The bone was jutting out, like a giant
yellow tooth, from a red rose of bloody flesh.

“Let me look,” a young
woman’s voice said. I strained to see her and caught a surprising glimpse of a
dark red shawl and a shock of white hair.

She crouched over me, the
scent of wild flowers rolling like a sea mist from her. She uncorked a bottle
and then produced a long silver pin from her hair. The pin jabbed into her pale
digit and she squeezed blood into the bottle, shook it and then poured the
purple contents on my leg.

I’m ashamed to say I
screamed and must have passed out because when I opened my eyes the scene
around me had changed. My leg itched like I’d been rolling in poison ivy all
afternoon.

Deradin was stood staring
down the road, smoothing his moustache. He saw I had come to and hoisted me to
my feet.

“My leg...” I began.

“Is a testament to a
miracle, my lad.”

I had an uneasy feeling in
my belly. “Deradin?” I asked. “What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking that I need
to expand the stock.”

The uneasy feeling had just
got stronger.

#

I had to linger until the
four moons hid like bashful maidens behind the clouds before I crept into the
old lady’s cottage. My nose had been teased for hours by the wild foliage of
her small garden. Even in the still of the ebony night they were pungent and
rich and I did worry that if I ever returned to the Cloisters smelling like a
posy I would get such a kicking from the lads I’d never walk again.

In truth, though, I
shouldn’t even have been walking. My shattered limb was a paradox, a mystery
and the solution was in a bottle within the silent cottage.

The door was ajar as I scuttled up the wonky path. There was a faint radiance
from the interior and a quick glance through the crack told me it was the
embers of the fire casting its dying glow.

I could sense the anxiety
within my breast once more but I battered it down. There was no fire in here,
only its memory in the hearth.

The door was mercifully
silent as I slipped past into the kitchen. The woman slept face down on a vast
oak table, surrounded by remnants of her day: dirty plates, chipped goblets,
food-caked knives, fruit beginning to turn. I could smell the fumes of Verdali
and my eyes sought out the uncorked demi-john. The old woman snored as I crept
past her. A bundle of dresses were tossed on a chair. They were all bright and
skimpy--not the sort of attire a crone such as this should wear, I thought.

Then I spotted the purple
bottles. There were four of them--full of the thick liquid that only hours
before had been poured over my crippling wound.
Have you ever tried to shift four bottles into a bag without making a sound?
One word--don’t. I was certain as I breathlessly eased them from the table that
they made enough clamour to wake a corpse who had expired with both ears
severed.

The old lady snuffled like
a hungry badger and I froze, acutely aware of the fullness of my bladder. Her
snores resumed with the resonance of a mating warthog. I measured my steps out
precisely and softly as I traversed the cottage towards the door. Upon
achieving the welcome threshold to escape I chanced a glance back.

The old lady was watching
me.

My blood congealed to the
consistency of a black pudding in my veins. Was she going to start screaming
'thief'?

She chuckled dryly. “As
blood will heal, only the tears of a child may take away the burden of the
years--and I have none to cry for me.”

I reached into my bag and
began to place the potions on the cluttered table. She held up her wizened hand
to stop me.

"I must say you have a
strange way of expressing your gratitude for my earlier kindness," she said.

A new sickness was in my
gut now and it took several seconds to recognise its peculiar flavour--it was
shame.

"As I said, take them.
But be aware, everything in this life comes at a cost...a price that must be
settled," the old lady said. Yet as the words came out they were
different, the pitch lighter and terrifyingly familiar.

It was my mother's voice.

I stumbled back, tears
worming down my cheek, apologies stuttering from my lips. I felt the cool air
of the garden on the back of my neck as I tripped back through the door and,
shuddering, I turned and ran for my life. Upon reaching the gate I chanced a
look back and saw the old lady hunched over the table, delicately scraping a
spoon from where my tears had landed.

She was welcome to them.

#

I’d never seen frost in all
its beauty whilst I grew up in Kokis. There was something about the golden city
that repulsed the pure white of winter’s caress; at best we managed a wet
slushy shower, like the sky had grown irritated of Kokis’s aspirations and now spat
its contempt down on the cobbled lanes.

My woollen cloak was double
lined and of excellent quality and it battered away the frigid nip of early
winter admirably. I sat outside Deradin’s pavilion marvelling at the sun
glittering off the silver strands of a spider’s web. A large carriage was
approaching down the white dusted road flanked by four soldiers, chainmail
shining.

I let out a shrill whistle
and Deradin emerged, stretching like a lion that had munched all morning on a
rather plump antelope. Deradin was a picture to behold: his doublet was deepest
purple with cloth of gold trim, his buckles were shimmering silver and his
cloak hung nonchalantly over one shoulder. He had more rings than the oldest
oak in the forest.

“Look sharp, Col, big pay
up coming along.”

I shrugged sullenly but
stood none-the-less. The low winter sun lit Deradin’s creased face and it was
then I noticed the streaks of silver in his hair and beard.

“Deradin, your beard it’s...”

“Hush, Col. I just forgot
the dye this morning.”

My quizzical look was lost
as the carriage came to a halt and a sombre looking man emerged. His eyes had
the bored slope of the nobility. “I brought my boy. Know now that if what you
claim is fantasy...”

“Cast aside your doubt, Sir
Herfen. One does not acquire attire as resplendent as this with mere quackery.”

Two soldiers gently lifted
a young lad from the carriage. He was about my age but had the colour of poor
quality clay. His breath squeaked from his azure lips like an old bedstead on a
wedding night.

“The scrofula has coalesced
into a mass that throttles him from within,” Herfen said. “We have tried
cupping, leaches, poultices, bleeding and tonics to no avail. The Guild
suggested beseeching the King...”

“Let us not trouble his
majesty. Lay him flat.”

The boy’s stridor worsened
as he came supine but Deradin was looking very assured. He slid a bottle from
his cloak, uncorked the top and rested it on the ground. He slipped out his
stiletto and ran it down his wrist. The trickle of blood sent a little cloud of
fumes from the bottle. Deradin raised it to the boy’s lips and poured it slowly
into his dusky mouth. It came as no surprise to see the boy cough his lungs
out, a process which turned him a sinister hue of purple.

I heard the soldiers mutter a prayer as the swelling reduced before our eyes.
For my part I was watching Deradin as the grey in his hair spread, like the
frost had risen from the chill turf beneath our boots.

The toff was all tears and
praise and dumped his own body weight in gold in our pavilion. His son was
hoisted into the carriage and as they made to go he turned and said, “I heard
tell that the Duke’s daughter is sick with consumption. The rewards will be
beyond your wildest dreams--I shall tell him of your worth.”

Deradin skipped like a
whore on payday--which given my opinion of him at that instant was apt.

“The potion is cursed,
Deradin,” I said, following him into the pavilion. “You’ll be the richest
corpse in Thetoria at this rate.”

“Deradin, just listen to
me. The old lady...she was once young. I mean...well, why don’t you just use
your best tonic instead?”

“My tonic? What are you blithering
about? Why would I use that crap on her when I can cure her and be rich?”

His statement lingered in
the air like pipe-weed smoke. My insides were twisting and churning.

“Crap? You mean it doesn’t
work?”

A veil of realisation
descended over Deradin’s wrinkled face. “Well--it works, yes, it works. That is
to say it palliates the terrible symptoms of...”

“Palliates? You mean it
kills the pain but not the affliction?”

“It cures the excruciating
discomfort of impending asphyxia with a dash of poppy and a hint of
quicksilver…”

“Quicksilver...you fake!
You bloody charlatan. That’s my sister. I believed in you all this time. I
trusted you. Now I see the shade of lies around you.” Tears and snot were
pasting my face and I was screaming at Deradin, spit flying in his face.

“Enough!” he yelled back at
me. His moustache was quivering. “Go now. Your debt is paid. Go back to your
wet hovel. I do not require your companionship any longer.”

I slapped him with all my
strength, enjoying the split of his lip and the rattle of his jaw. My blood was
boiling and my head pounding as I stomped from the pavilion. Deradin came
behind me and shoved me in the back and I sprawled onto the cold grass, my face
a foot from the small camp-fire he had lit that morning.

A familiar surge of terror
came through me as I felt the glare of the heat on my face. Such was my anger
at that moment that for once I battered the screams in my head away and calmly
got to my feet, striding away down the road without a second glance.

#

Anger carries you so far,
pride that little bit further. Once they were spent I plumbed the depths of
stubbornness, as I plodded through the relentless scouring of the blizzard.

Numb indifference permeated
my body, my luxurious traveling cloak bestowing little protection as it grew
steadily more sodden. My thoughts were swirling like the fat flakes of snow
around me. I felt raw frustration at my own willingness to be duped. I’d
remained with Deradin because I was searching for purpose, yearning to fill a
void in my hollow heart. It was as much my fault as his.

And with the fury came the
realisation that I may have sacrificed those priceless nuggets of time with my
sister. You never get that time again; Mum’s death had taught me that. The
impossible sound of her voice at the old woman's house had chilled me far
deeper than any frost. To hear that voice come from those pale lips--a voice
that had shrouded me in unconditional warmth through the most feverish nights
of childhood--extenuated the guilt I felt at both the theft and my departure
from my family in Kokis.

In the swirling monochrome
I made out a building, its glowing windows like gems of life. I staggered
through the snow, grasped the ice-crusted door handle and entered the warmth. I
was dimly aware of an innkeeper leading me towards the fire and my non-sensical
attempts at gratitude. I shivered by the crackling flames, too dissociated to
be afraid. Two men sat by the hearth and I cajoled my inert mouth into a smile
at the nearest.

A familiar scar bisected
his leering face and what little warmth I’d gained left me in an instant.

#

Water so cold that my teeth
ached dragged me back to consciousness. The frigid state of my face contrasted
so acutely with the molten pain in my hand that I considered for an instant
that I may have been pulled into two parts and subject to the differing regions
of the Pale.

Yet there were no demons in
the barn with me--just two men and that was torment enough.

The memory was like the
shards of a shattered window and I desperately endeavoured to reconstruct
events in the stupor of my brain. Gaarn, the gangster from the Cloisters, and
his apish crony had taken me from the inn. But where was I now and why did my
hand burn so?

With two glances I had the
answers. To the former query: I was in a barn, tied to a rusted plough,
surrounded by bundles of straw and covered in the filth of the farmyard. In the
corner, lit by the amber pool of a lantern, lay a body smeared in blood. For an
instant I thought it Deradin but the corpse’s attire inferred a more rural
origin--probably the poor farmer.

And the latter question? My
second glance took in the vision of my left hand minus a ring finger. The stump
was seared flesh and clot. I vomited in huge heaves on the straw matted floor.
Gaarn watched unimpressed.

Gaarn jammed his stump in
my face, the puckered end like a club. His huge companion wore an eye patch and
looked similarly aggrieved with me.

Fear clutched at my throat
but I wouldn’t let these idiots see it. “You’ll be waiting until there’s a
sunny day in the Pale. Deradin cares more for gold than me.”

“Oh really?” Graan said
with a sneer. “The buffoon is like a chestnut--the hard shell of a scam artist,
but soft and needy on the interior. He’ll come--the message was wrapped around
your finger after all.”

The melancholia came upon
me then, sneaking into the core of my young soul like a necessary stranger. In
several glorious months I had come to care for Deradin and at that point,
despite my anger towards him, I prayed to the Gods that he would not come to
this place and to his death.

It was dark when Deradin
arrived. He stepped into the dusty expanse of the barn, the tinge of the golden
lantern light on his resplendent clothes. He dumped a sack of coins ignobly on
the floor.

Gaarn scratched his stump
and snorted. “You look like a bloody peacock, you moron. How in the gods you
came by this potion and this gold I’ll never know.”

“The deal is the boy for
the gold and the potion, Graan. Can’t say fairer than that. Escar should be
content.”

“Oh Escar won’t be troubled
with this. We’ve told him you’re dead anyway. No--this is compensation for
our... injuries. And you’re in no position to make deals. Now piss off--the boy
is ours to play with.”

Deradin sighed and slowly
removed two bottles of purple potion. Graan’s hulking companion moved to grab
the bottles when Deradin abruptly lunged. His stiletto flashed and struck the
ruffian in the neck. He fell back, blood cascading from his flapping throat and
careened into the table. I saw the lantern spin into the air, its gilded pool
flitting across the gloomy barn.

Gaarn let out a roar and
charged towards Deradin. I couldn’t see a blasted thing but I could feel the
rusted edge of the plough behind my back so I set about furiously sawing my
bonds.

The pair wrestled with
Deradin’s knife and despite his one arm Gaarn was putting in a good effort. The
oil from the lantern had splashed over the bundles of straw and with a crumping
noise the whole bloody lot went up. The barn was lit with an infernal
luminescence as I split the rope. Bile was bitter in my mouth as I stumbled
past the twitching body of Graan’s companion, the crimson flow from his slit
neck ebbing to a trickle.

I could hear my mother’s
screams tearing at my soul as I dashed through the choking smoke. Blind bestial
panic propelled me towards the barn door, the black air dragging at my limbs
like an enormous evil spirit.

The night air tasted like
the freshest mountain stream as I burst out and scrabbled in the snow. I curled
in a simpering ball, the wet white powder infiltrating the seams of my garb.
The thick smoke was pouring from the barn now and I could see the roof
beginning to catch.

Deradin was still
inside--but I couldn’t return to help him. I just couldn’t. Perhaps he would
emerge any minute, moustache bristling, a witty riposte on his sooty lips.

The seconds slipped past
and the dark clouds kept billowing. The cries echoed in my mind still. Yet I
realised, as I sat shivering in the snow, that they were no longer screams but
pleas. My mother’s voice was pleading, imploring me... to act.

I feared my heart would
give out such was my terror as I charged back into the barn. The interior was
opaque with smoke and incandescent with heat. I dropped instinctively to the
floor and crawled through the choking half-light.

I found Deradin slumped on
the floor, soaked in blood. Gaarn was at his side, the stiletto in his chest to
the hilt. I could feel the slow undulation of Deradin’s breathing.

Deradin was a heavy man and
the absence of useful air didn’t help matters. Yet I had strength within me
bordering on the divine and with a grunt I stood and dragged him by his fine
cloak. The straw on the floor made it simpler as I spluttered towards the door.
He coughed and began to try stand as we neared the sanctuary of the door.

The weight of the
collapsing wall crashed down towards us and in panic I shoved Deradin with all
my power. We flailed through to the exterior, the heat of the fire still on my
back. Deradin landed gracelessly in the snow. Intense pain poured like lava
across my back and with a sudden horror I realised I was ablaze.

It took three heartbeats
for the flames to engulf me, undoubtedly assisted by my terrified pirouetting.
I was dimly aware of Deradin pulling me into the snow and the sound of a
hundred snakes in my ears. My body felt paradoxically insensate, like I had
been transformed into stone.

“Oh, by the Gods Col...look
at you,” Deradin’s voice drifted into my head. “Why did you come back in for
me?”

A strange sense of peace
was pervading me and Deradin’s cries were drowned out by the angelic mantra of
my mother.

A hot bitter taste teased
my lips as tranquillity engulfed me.

#

My father’s new house was positively arid in comparison to the old place.
Relocation up towards Apostle’s Garden had been facilitated by a mysterious
order for three dozen hats to be delivered to a patron in Thetoria City.

I had come around in the
airy expanse of the Regency and for one insane moment I considered that the
whole escapade had been some convoluted dream. However the inebriated status of
Verdali, facilitated by only a tiny portion of the purse of gold that had been
found at my slumbering side, attested to the reality of my journey.

My skin itched as if ten
thousand ants burrowed beneath the surface. I had a horrendous discomfort in my
side which transpired to be a half full bottle of the purple potion.

So I sat by my sister’s
frugal bed, rolling the bottle in my hands. My finger had grown back, though it
felt foreign and misplaced somehow. My eldest brother had fetched me from the
Regency and lead me dazed through the slushy streets of Kokis. That my sister
still breathed astounded me--according to my brother Deradin’s elixir had eased
her convoluted respiration greatly over the last six months and despite all
clucking predictions from the local crones she had lingered on in her
near-life.

The purple bottle caught
the light sneaking in through the narrow window. It was the last of the
draught--Deradin’s shot at the big time. What had made him come for me? The
same thing that had made me stare the terror of the past in the eye and scream
my defiance. For a man ruled by the past is like a ghost in the present.

Gods willing my tears would
have given him some more time as the grey permeated his beard and his body.

I slowly drew the edge of a
knife across my arm and watched the drips fall into the bottle.

2011-05-14 04:22:45Hi Sidewinder4: I left Deradin's fate open to the imagination. The inference of the story is the aging changes are amenable to a child's tears so perhaps Col's tears helped him. Or maybe he'd made enough cash out of the whole shenanigan to live happily ever after? Glad u liked it :) ross

2011-05-12 20:30:33Sidewinder4 - The movie Midnight Cowboy is somewhat like this tale. Earned respect and love-friendship shine even from a world of despair. And shared magic-that-heals, the unanswered prayer of too many, is here too. It's a good tale. What happened to Deradin?

2011-05-01 05:43:40A well told tale. Great stuff!

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